Page 11 of He Has Pluck

The team dinner is at the dining room in the Brawlers practice facility, not far from the Garden and not far from my hotel room. So after going to my hotel room to nap and change, I walk back with a million things going through my head, like where I’m going to live, how I’m going to score goals against these fast and tough fuckers and last, but unfortunately not least, I’m looking forward to sparring with Juliette Sullivan, aka Ice Chip, my dick’s new obsession.

Walking inside, I run into Finn and Rafe on the way to the dining room.

“You look dapper,” Finn says. “All dressed up for your stint as a film star?” I’m wearing black jeans, a white button-down shirt and a black blazer, a compromise between dressed up and comfortable.

“Beats looking like crap,” I say, giving him a pointed once-over.

Rafe laughs. “I can see you’re going to rival Finnegan in the race for dishing out the most shit on the team.”

“If there’s a prize for it, I’ll do my best to win.”

“You’re on,” Finn says. “I got a hundred bucks says I’ll win.”

“Who’ s gonna be the judge?” We both look at Rafe.

He snorts. “No fucking way.” He pushes through the door, and we follow, joining a half dozen other guys already seated at various tables. I follow Rafe—the theme for my place on the new team so far—and take a seat with him as he joins Tony G. Finn is right behind me.

The room is set up banquet style, with lots of tables for four and six diners, and there’s a salad and a big glass filled with what I’d guess is some kind of sports drink waiting at each place setting. Spotting a basket of bread, I go for that first.

Coach walks in, but before he sits down, he blows his whistle to get our attention though guys are still arriving.

Some of the crowd aren’t on the team, but I recognize the equipment manager and his assistants, the trainer and physical therapist and an older guy with him who I’d guess is the team doc. And none other than Delaney.

But my gaze slips past the PR lady to the camera following behind her and the lady behind it. Shit. She’s not wearing her Mission Impossible outfit tonight.

“Get a look at Juliette,” Tony says, leaning in. He lets out a low whistle in spite of the coach talking.

My fists tighten, and I lower them to my lap. My gut roils, and I have no idea what my problem is. He’s not being disrespectful. I might have said the same thing since I’m just as impressed, except she’s so…maddeningly cool and prickly. She may as well have porcupines for parents.

There’s only one problem with this analysis of my reaction. She’s far more maddeningly gorgeous and sexy than she is icy. She’s still wearing black, but it’s what I’d call a little black dress with an emphasis on little. It’s slinky, sleeveless, low cut and short—all the makings of a mouthwatering look.

And then there’s that vulnerability that peeks through the glacier-solid defense she throws up. There’s something underneath the chips weighing down Juliette’s shoulders, and for whatever reason, my body, and maybe even my subconscious, wants to melt her defenses and get to that core. No shit. I almost scoff at myself out loud.

My problem is that I’m a horny hockey playing male. Exactly who she’s accused me of being. Why that bothers me so much I’m not sure. But I watch her film the room, circling the perimeter, with Delaney following her and giving her instructions like she’s the director.

Then I realize there is no director, and I’m no expert in the film business, but I find that odd. My curiosity spurts ahead of my lust in the race to need to know her better.

Coach ends his speech, and I realize I haven’t heard a word of it. Fuck. She already has me distracted and I’ve barely touched her—not counting the inadvertent boob-grab.

Rafe stands and pumps his fist, and along with everyone else, I follow. Coach blows his whistle and yells at us to eat our fucking good meal that the Brawlers are paying for. We sit and I don’t need much prompting to eat. None of us do. We’re like a pack of wolves on a carcass.

Looking around the room, I ask Rafe, “I haven’t seen O’Rourke. Is he injured?”

“No, thank fuck,” he says. “He missed practice today to be with his wife who gave birth to a baby boy a day ago.”

I nod, and Rafe and Finnegan start talking about kids. That leaves me and Tony in this foursome to talk. I try to stick to hockey, but he veers off-topic.

“You got a steady girlfriend or wife?” he asks.

“No. You?” I’m being a wise ass.

“No,” he snorts. “You find a place to live yet, besides the hotel?”

“I’m looking.”

“I have a two-bedroom rental until the end of June if you want to room with me. We can split it. Rent is pricey in this town, especially for guys like us on minimum salary.”

“I’ll think about it. I have a call in for a one-bedroom rental I’m waiting on.” It’s half true. I’ve been meaning to make the call. I checked out area rentals as soon as I got the call from my agent to come to Boston, but I’ve hardly had a chance to think since then. I aimed for places that were the cheapest in the surrounding area. No way could I afford Boston, but I need to stay close and need to get something cheap soon.